


In Which You are Important

by prettygirllostt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I just don't think Lestrade gets enough love, M/M, Platonic Love, friends to a little more, relationship but not really sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygirllostt/pseuds/prettygirllostt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history between Sherlock and Lestrade is more than he lets on. Not for his sake, but for Sherlock's. Here is my (non canon) version of how they met and what happened before and during the Watson year(s). </p><p>Lestrade just doesn't get enough love so here is my ode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade had met Sherlock when he was simply a kid. Or at least, that’s how he’d thought of the young man. Strung out on something (Greg had never asked what, he didn’t think he needed to know. Not really.) the brilliant young man had staggered onto a crime scene with a leather jacket over his arm and a smug grin. He solved the case in minutes, though Lestrade never told him as much and instead poured him into a cab with some cash and a card with his home phone number. It was the days before the long coat. The days before Doctor Watson. It was some of the most interesting and fun times of the Detective Inspector’s life.

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock hadn’t always lived at Baker Street. For a long time he’d lived in a small flat that his brother paid for. It was a simple flat. Three rooms all together with a small bedroom, a bathroom and a large sitting room with the kitchen attached. Sherlock was always a mess. Papers cluttered any flat surface and the first time Lestrade made it to the flat he’d had to sit on top of scribbles about plants and their healing properties simply because there was no other space to put the papers. Lestrade spent secret moments cleaning when Sherlock turned his back. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t mind some mess but Sherlock was a hurricane wrapped in tight trousers. It was almost unbearable but Lestrade felt something pull him toward the young man and so he stayed, his interest peaked.

^ ^ ^

            “Lestrade speaking.”

            “I…I….I…I think I need help,” the voice on the phone rasped.

            It took Greg a second. He’d almost forgotten the young man from the crime scene with the bright, drugged eyes.

            “Sherlock,” he said. His wife turned from where she was cooking dinner and he waved her away. She shrugged and continued while he turned his back.

            “Detective.”

            “Where are you?” he put his hand over his other ear as his wife turned on the microwave.

            “Tedious,” Sherlock’s voice sounded strained and Greg felt out of his depth.

            “Sherlock, you need to tell me where you are so I can come get you,” he said desperately.

            “B….bar,” Sherlock stuttered and as he gave the address Greg pulled on his coat, kissed his wife on the cheek and hurried out to his car.

            He found Sherlock shaking on the bathroom floor. Even with his arms wrapped around his knees he managed to radiate contempt but he was obviously sick and Greg knelt beside him without hesitation.

            “Let me get you home,” he said.

            “No hospital?” Sherlock’s teeth chattered.

            “I assume you don’t want one. I also know your brother watches you. You’ll have one in your flat by the time we get there,” Greg replied.

            Sherlock gave him a wane smile. Greg took it for the gratitude and helped to lift the thin man to his feet. He weighed nearly nothing and it was alarmingly easy to help him stagger to the car.

            “You have a car,” Sherlock said.

            “Thought that was too obvious for a proper genius like you,” Greg said. He dumped Sherlock into his car while the younger man huffed out a laugh.

            “Oh Detective. It’s anything but obvious,” he drawled, “you live in London and you can drive a car from your office. Why would you need one? Unless….your wife wanted one so badly to get to and from her girl’s nights. That’s a lie, you know. It’s so she can meet other men.” He giggled at the end of the sentence and Greg stared at him as he climbed into the car.

            “Oh! You didn’t know!” Sherlock clapped his hands, his eyes so brightly green they seemed to glow.

            “I don’t know,” he replied gruffly.

            Sherlock rolled his head along the seat and smiled warmly. It wasn’t real, it was feral and sickly and Greg felt disgust roll through him. If he ever wanted to prove to someone they shouldn’t do drugs, he simply needed a picture of this moment.

            “Yes you do,” Sherlock crowed.

            Greg started the car and stared straight ahead. “You have vomit on your jacket,” he replied.

            Sherlock scowled and Greg gunned the car with his own small smile.

^ ^ ^

            After the first call, Greg got calls nearly every week. His wife stopped caring when he left and one night when she had plans shoved cash into his hand and told him to catch a cab. He didn’t have time to worry about it. It took a month for the mysterious older brother to appear. Once Greg met him, he wondered why it had taken the man so long to take an interest in him.

            Mycroft Holmes was completely different from his brother and somehow, Greg wasn’t surprised to find him standing in his kitchen.

            “You must be the other Holmes,” he said.

            “You are far more clever than my brother gives you credit for,” Mycroft said mildly.

            “Your brother is a junky. If he’d get sober he might actually be of use to the force. And you always have a doctor in his flat when I get him there. I might not be as smart as you two but I’m also not stupid,” Greg said. He placed the tea kettle on the burner and lifted his eyebrow to ask the silent question. Mycroft nodded minutely.

            “Well then you might be able to guess why I’m here.”

            Greg pulled two cups from the cabinet and turned to face Mycroft. “It can’t be the ‘hurt my brother and I’ll kill you’ speech since he’s clearly doing an amazing job of that himself and I’m about 15 years older than him.”

            “You are only 10 years, but yes, you are correct in that assumption that I’m not here for that conversation,” Mycroft nodded and Greg looked surprised.

            “He’s 25?”

            “Yes. He likes to look younger. It helps him with his….work,” A slight twitch of his lip was the only sign that Mycroft was displeased.

            “So then, why are you here?” Greg asked. He catalogued the small almost frown for later.

            “Sherlock has never attached himself to someone the way he has to you. If there was anything to get him sober it would be his hope of working with the force as you so…commonly put it. I would like your help in getting him back. Before he kills himself.”

            “You want me to help you? With Sherlock? The most I do is make sure he’s home safely with a bucket,” Greg snorted. The kettle screamed and Greg turned to pour the tea.

            “You are the only person he allows to see him in that state. Without your help; I’m loathe to say it; he’ll die sooner rather than later.”

            Greg said nothing.

            “I would pay you generously.”  

            It was then that Greg began to laugh. Mycroft looked affronted as he took the tea Greg handed to him.

            “Oh my god you think you can pay me to take care of Sherlock? Have you met your brother? Even hungover he’s a giant pain in the arse and you want me to help you with him? Is there even enough money in the world for that to be worth it?”

            Mycroft put his cup down and very nearly sneered. “I would make it worth your while.”

            “The point here is not the money. I’ve been pouring Sherlock into cabs and taking him home for over a month now. Without extra pay. If you really want my help you need to actually ask. You seem like a smart man. Far smarter than me by far but if you truly think bribing me is the way to get me to help you with Sherlock you’re so blind it’s sad,” Greg said.

            “Will you,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “out of the goodness of your heart, help me save my brother before he kills himself in his chase for the perfect high.”

            “Course. You know he only does it to silence the world, right?” Greg said into his cup.

            “What?”

            “Yep. He told me once. High as a kite. Ranting about how his brain works and how to dull the boredom and the screaming of the world he shoots up. Promise him cases and stimuli that doesn’t include drugs and it…well it won’t be easy but it’s a step,” he shrugged.

            Mycroft looked stunned.

            “What?” Greg asked when Mycroft only stared.

            “You’ll hear from me soon.”

            And from that day on, Greg was helping Mycroft, but he never saw it that way. He only ever saw himself as helping Sherlock.

^ ^ ^

            “I hate you!”

            “I know.”

            “This won’t help me. When I’m out of here….”

            “I know.”

            “….Greg?”

            “Yes, Sherlock?”

            “Don’t go.”

            “I won’t.”

^ ^ ^

            It took the better half of a year before Sherlock could fully function in every day life. It was a cool day in November when he was officially brought on his first crime scene. Greg watched the younger man bounce about the scene, not exactly the picture of health, but closer than he’d ever been. He grinned when Sherlock spouted deductions, spinning in his leather coat that hugged his body. Greg couldn’t help but think that he looked too thin still, especially in that coat. When Sherlock wasn’t looking, he dialed Mycroft.

            “I haven’t asked for anything,” he said when Mycroft picked up, “and I’m asking for something now. It’s not for me.”

            “What is it?” Mycroft asked.

            “Give me the money to buy a coat. A fitted coat. Also, I need Sherlock’s measurements.”

            “Turning into quite the handler, aren’t you?” Mycroft’s voice was smug.

            “No. Quite a friend, I’d say,” Greg snapped back. He hung up before he got a reply. When he got home that night, there was a check on the kitchen table for him. He didn’t explain it to his wife and she didn’t ask. When she left for her girl’s night, he hardly looked up.

^ ^ ^

            The coat was dramatic. It swirled when Sherlock turned and the ash color complimented his eyes. Greg couldn’t help but smile when Sherlock first put it on.

            “I have a jacket,” Sherlock frowned.

            “Yes, but I’ve washed enough puke stains out of it and honestly, you’re too thin for it. Just try this, please,” Greg held out the box.

            “Fine,” Sherlock snapped back. His eyes seemed to glow though and Greg wasn’t fooled. Sherlock liked presents.

            He opened it with subdued gusto, something Greg had to see to believe. When he lifted the coat from its paper he frowned for a moment. “Mycroft,” he said.

            “Oh I milked it, price wise but I assure you, I chose it,” Greg leaned back on the somewhat cleaned up couch in Sherlock’s flat.

            Sherlock grinned. “Wonderful.” He swept it on and beamed. It was a rare sight and Greg drank it in. When Sherlock twirled he laughed. They’d both forgotten it was Sherlock’s 26th birthday.

^ ^ ^

            Sometimes Greg wondered when his caring for Sherlock had changed to caring about him. It seemed to have snuck up on him. All those nights dealing with the young man when he was sick. The even longer days holding him while he shook her fighting to get food down him so he wouldn’t starve. Maybe it was those times but he would always think back to one certain moment when it hit him completely. It wasn’t an important day. Rather, it was an ordinary one. Sherlock swept into his office as he usually did, calling for papers on a case and Greg had rolled his eyes only to see two cups of coffee in the man’s hands. Sherlock had pressed one into his hand quickly, turning away so suddenly Greg almost missed the flush on his cheeks. Greg had sipped his coffee with a small smile and for the rest of the day; he ignored the insults Sherlock threw his way. It was, after all, a sign of affection.

^ ^ ^

            When Sherlock turned 27 he fell off the grid for a while. Greg heard nothing and as quickly as the man had been in his life, he was gone. It was a shock but Greg fell back into his life almost too easily. His wife and her infidelity settled back into place. No more Holmes brothers messing up things. It was nice. Easy. Simple. So why was he so bloody bored?

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock, for his part had gone to visit family in France. He spoke fluent French and thought that it was about time he rubbed his success in their faces. It wasn’t his fault he got caught up in cases for the French police. On his 29th birthday he thought of his dear Detective Inspector and gave him a call.

^ ^ ^

            It wasn’t a big welcome party. Only Greg Lestrade waiting for Sherlock at the gate of the airport. Sherlock hid his smile and instead held out his hand. Greg pulled him into a hug.

            “Don’t do that again, mate. Life was too boring without you, you git,” Greg said into Sherlock’s shoulder.

            Sherlock hesitantly put his hand on Greg’s back.

            “It was quite tedious I assure you. And no one was quite as idiotic as you,” he replied.

            Greg only smiled. He pulled back and patted Sherlock’s cheek. “You look exactly the same.”

            “And you don’t look a day over 40,” Sherlock said.

            “Oy!” Greg chuckled.

            “Come. You’ve got the car. I have ads for flats. Let’s go look about, shall we?” Sherlock said with a rare smile.

            “Cheeky,” Greg laughed, “Yeah, alright. I’ve got nothing on today. Why not help Sherlock Holmes find a flat?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a new flat----Reichenbach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for reading this and hopefully enjoying it! I love comments so please leave anything you felt about this piece after you read it.
> 
> This is un beta'd right now and I haven't proof read it so bear with any errors, I'll get to them soon. There will be one more chapter after this one.
> 
> I have a couple other finished fics on my page if you like my writing and want to check them out :)
> 
> Thanks again for supporting my writing, it means the world to me!

Sherlock found another flat that wasn’t Baker Street and though Greg hated it, Sherlock could afford it and it was just enough space for all of the equipment he’d brought back from France. Sherlock could even fit himself onto the couch if he tried. It was a win, win for Sherlock so Greg simply helped him count out the down payment (he didn’t ask where the cash came from) and went back to the airport where Sherlock’s things had been shipped in.

            “So, France,” Greg said as he pulled a rolling case that was suspiciously heavy.

            “Yes. Father’s side of the family. They always said I’d amount to nothing. Drug addicts rarely do,” Sherlock said so easily Greg looked sideways at him, “So when I was finally clean I felt a visit was in order. I am nothing if not vain as you know. When I was received, they told me of some horrid murders that had been occurring. I couldn’t simply sit around and not prove myself, so I went. I proved myself so much they wanted me to stay. They had so many fascinating cold cases. The time simply got away from me. I lived in a lovely little flat there. Very French.”

            “The time got away from you?” Greg asked in disbelief.

            “Yes, regrettably. I had meant to come back to London much sooner.”

            “Time gets away from you for an hour, not for nearly three years!”

            Sherlock frowned and stopped walking. “I was busy. The work was all I needed.”

            Greg rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Sherlock. Come on; let’s get this stuff back to your flat. I’m bloody starving.”

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock ate like a horse. It was disconcerting the first time Greg saw it. He shoveled Chinese into his mouth and swallowed almost before he could chew it seemed. He didn’t eat on  a normal schedule and proclaimed, “It’s been days,” through a mouthful of rice and lo mein when Greg questioned him. Greg only shook his head and continued to eat his food at a normal pace, all while wrapping his takeaway containers on his free arm so Sherlock wouldn’t try to eat it. He did anyway and the night ended with a wrestling match which was surprisingly even.

            “Oy! Okay! Truce,” Greg laughed.

            Sherlock flopped away instantly, a bright glint in his eye. “I am not to be underestimated, Detective.”

            “What else did you learn while you were away?” Greg asked as he sat up.

            “I only refined those skills in France, I knew them long before. The way I live my life, I must. And wouldn’t you love to know the other things I learned while with my family?” Sherlock grinned, opting to flop backwards and stretch instead of sitting up.

            “You’re different,” Greg commented.

            “Have you forgotten I detest vague statements?”

            “You’re a different person. You’re more…laid back,” Greg amended. He knew Sherlock well and didn’t take the snide comment to heart.

            Sherlock didn’t answer and instead stood up. He paced to the window.

            “I despise this flat,” he said. He had been living in the grungy place for over three months and was getting stir crazy.

            “You can’t afford anything else,” Greg replied.

            “Flat mate.”

            “You?” Greg laughed, “A flat mate for you?”

            Sherlock looked offended which only made Greg laugh harder. If Sherlock were normal, he would have been offended a long time ago. He frowned furiously.

            “I know I must be a hard man to find a flat mate for, but it will be possible,” Sherlock snapped.

            “Whatever you say.”

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock loved St. Bart’s. It was one of his favorite playgrounds. He knew a few people there who spoke to him and helped him when he needed something and he went to Mike Stamford with his flat mate problem. There was only so much Mycroft or Lestrade could do for him. He didn’t want a flat mate that Mycroft chose, it would be someone who spied on him. Lestrade would try and help but the man was inept sometimes and though Sherlock respected him, he wouldn’t let him help in this. Mike Stamford had an uncanny ability to find people who fit together (as the stories went he’d found spouses for at least 7 of his friends) and though Sherlock was loathe to admit it, he could use that expertise.

            “A flat mate? For you?” Mike asked.

            “Yes. I know I am not an easy man to find a flat mate for, but I am in need,” Sherlock replied.

            “Well then, mate. We’ll see,” Mike smiled.

^ ^ ^

            Greg loved the Baker Street flat. It was perfect for Sherlock and he said as much. Sherlock bounced on his toes and beamed. That was the start of yet another piece of history and Greg said as much. Sherlock only grinned.

^ ^ ^

            At home Greg’s life was in shambles. His wife was leaving more and more often and work was taking him away from any chance he had of fixing it.

            “You and that fucking job! We were going to have kids! We were going to have a life and instead I have to take my sister’s kids to rugby and wait up for you while you’re out at work! And when you aren’t working you’re with that bloody Sherlock Holmes! Lunatic from what I’ve heard. You know Sally calls to tell me when you leave work,” his wife yelled at him. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this fight.

            “You’re sleeping with the coach and you’re worried about me?” Greg shouted back.

            “Oh don’t make this about me,” she said hotly.

            “Yes, god forbid we make something about you!” he threw his hands up and she slammed a petite fist into the table.

            “Godammit, Greg! This isn’t about me! It’s always been about you! You and your work and your younger boy toy. That’s all your life is. You and me….we haven’t been anything in years and I’m sick of pretending we are,” she nearly growled at him.

            “So what do you want to do?” he was tired of this. Of this fight that never ended.

            “Well I don’t want a divorce. Where would I go? You don’t even make enough for me to take it all in satisfaction,” she said snidely.

            “And you wouldn’t get it. Since you’re cheating on me,” he replied.

            She snorted. “And you aren’t cheating on me? Have you fucked that Sherlock yet?”

            Greg reeled back in surprise. “Sherlock? You think I’ve slept with Sherlock?”

            “Oh don’t sound so surprised. You spend every waking moment that you aren’t working with him. And from my friends in your office, it seems you even spend your working hours with him. It wasn’t a big leap,” she massaged her forehead.

            “I’ve never slept with Sherlock,” he said, sounding exhausted.

            “But you want to,” she said.

            “I have never thought about it. Can we go back to what we’re going to do about this?” he snapped.

            “Fine! I’m going to go live with my sister, she has that in law apartment. Very American, apparently but it’s just enough space for me. We’ll stay married of course but…well we aren’t together, Greg. We won’t ever be again,” she said softly.

            “Fine. That’s fine. If you ever want to marry the bloody rugby coach just let me know. I’ll serve you the papers,” he said bitterly.

            She picked up the car keys and he took them out of her hands. She looked shocked. “I paid for that bloody car. I’m keeping it. You can take a fucking cab,” he said harshly.

            She blinked at him and he growled, “I’m going out. Please be gone when I get back. Take all that lace shit with you. I’m sick of it.” She looked at her pink lace curtains and frowned but he was already stalking toward the door.

            “Greg!” she called but he only slammed the door behind him. There was no going back now.

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock, at the time of Greg’s fight with his wife, was showing John Watson the flat. When Greg came to tell him of the case he deduced something was wrong but knew he’d have to find another time to talk to his friend. He catalogued it for later and took off for the case.

^ ^ ^

            By the time Sherlock could talk to Greg, both of their lives had changed so much. John was out on a date and Greg had trudged up the stairs into the flat as if he lived there. He crashed onto the coach with Sherlock and blew out a long sigh.

            “She left,” Sherlock said.

            “Yep. Tried to take the car,” Greg replied.

            “Good for you,” Sherlock smiled.

            “Not really. I feel rubbish actually. Where’s the good doctor?”

            “Out on a date. Tedious.”

            “She said I was cheating on her. With you,” Greg let his head loll across the back of the couch.

            “Well, you are,” Sherlock snorted.

            “What?”

            “You bought me a coat that cost nearly as much as your car. You spend your time with me quite happily. Probably more happily than you were when you spent time with her. Sex isn’t everything, Detective,” Sherlock tipped his head to look at Greg.

            “I loved her once. I just can’t find that feeling anymore.”

            “Boring,” Sherlock waved his hand, “Feelings come and go. Take Mrs. Hudson. She loved her husband once. Then things changed and now he’s dead and she’s happier than she was before. Emotions…things of the common man.”

            “Don’t pretend you don’t have feelings. You forget how well I know you,” Greg snorted.

            “Then why did you lie to John?” Sherlock asked, his keen eyes seeking Greg’s.

            “About what?”

            “Knowing me. He seems to think we’re only mild acquaintances. Your doing I assume,” Sherlock stretched his legs, leaning closer to Greg.

            “I need to seem impartial to you personally to keep you coming to crime scenes,” Greg explained.

            “Ah,” was Sherlock’s only reply.

            “Don’t be angry about that. It’s to keep my job,” Greg said.

            “No, I understand. So no more wife. But not divorced. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t get anything out of divorce. So she simply moved out,” Sherlock said.

            “Yep.”

            It seemed there was nothing left to say. Sherlock stood and silently brought Greg a glass of wine. Sitting back down, Sherlock very nearly leaned on the Detective Inspector and they sat in silence, comfortably.

^ ^ ^

            There were times when John suspected more between the Detective Inspector and his consulting detective. He didn’t know what it was that struck him as odd but ever since the drugs bust (“Shut up, John!”) he’d noticed more in the way they acted with each other. Lestrade moved within the flat as easily as if he lived there. When he came to visit or to meet John to walk to the pub he watched Sherlock much in the same way John did. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew or not.

            “I think Lestrade is in love with you,” John said one day.

            Sherlock looked surprised and then snorted. “Highly unlikely. Anyone who knows me for as long as he has never felt anything like love for me.”

            “He feels something for you, Sherlock,” John said.

            Sherlock studied his computer screen with a small frown on his face. “Improbable.”

            “Doesn’t mean it isn’t true. You’re…blind sometimes,” John sighed.

            Sherlock ignored him.

^ ^ ^

            “Bugger the Holmes brothers, you know?” Greg slurred. He was on his third pint at the pub with John. John grinned, his eyes a little glassy.

            “Yes. I live with one. I know. I know very well,” he swayed.

            “Bloody good for you, mate. Sherlock…Sh…lock….he’s intense. Too much in him, you know?” Greg asked.

            John nodded wisely.

            “But you still…love him,” he hiccupped.

            “What?” Greg’s voice went suddenly sober and John looked up from his glass.

            “You. You love him. Despite all of his asshole flaws,” John explained.

            “I thought you loved him,” Greg leaned forward on the bar and the bartender rolled his eyes. He saw enough drunk people a night to know that this wasn’t going anywhere good.

            “Yes, and one person loving him is the only possibility. Besides, he doesn’t want that. No, no, nope. He doesn’t do….that. And I enjoy that, right? Besides, I like women with big….and Sherlock is none of that,” John shook his head.

            “I don’t know what I like anymore,” Greg said mournfully.

            “Exactly my point,” John’s finger wavered in front of Greg’s face, “you could want him and not even know it! You love him. You should tell him. And stop lying to him and to me. I don’t care about your past. You know that.”

            Greg looked thoughtful. Finally, he took a long sip of his beer.

            “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

^ ^ ^

            There was nothing Greg wanted to do more than punch Mycroft in the face. He didn’t even dislike his wife’s lover as much as he disliked Sherlock’s brother. Maybe it was because Mycroft cornered him when he was least likely to expect it. Greg was starting to suspect he was always going to need to expect it.

            “Mycroft, it’s been….well not nearly long enough,” Greg greeted them man sitting in his living room.

            “It would be longer if you’d stop having very private conversations in public places,” Mycroft said almost pleasantly.

            “Ah. The drunken conversation with John,” Greg sat across from Mycroft.

            “Yes. You’re rather drunk conversation with Doctor Watson. I must say, I never thought you’d own up to your feelings for my brother.”

            “Which means you were hoping I wouldn’t,” Greg said pleasantly.

            “Quite so. Why would I want that…clutter…around my brother?” Mycroft asked.

            “Clutter? You think feelings are clutter?” Greg sounded surprised but he told himself he shouldn’t be. He’d known the Holmes’ brothers for a long time now. Nothing was really surprising.

            “It is messy. Sherlock doesn’t need that,” Mycroft snorted.

            “I think you’re worried what it will do to his relationship with you and his ideals if I tell him,” Greg said.

            Mycroft said nothing.

            “I don’t want him the way you think. I don’t want another…well…wife. I’m not even sure John was right. What I am sure of is that Sherlock deserves to hear that people care. I don’t think it even occurs to him that someone can care about him. You know what, I’m going to tell him. He deserves to know,” Greg said.

            Mycroft stared at him before rising. “I can see you won’t see sense. Just do us all a favor and stop having these talks where I can see them.”

            Greg only smiled and followed Mycroft to the door. He had somewhere to be.

^ ^ ^

            “Sherlock?”

            “Yes, Greg?”

            “I love you.”

            “…”

            “Sherlock?”

            “Could you pass me that beaker?”

            “Yeah.”

^ ^ ^

            It was around the time Irene Adler came into the picture that Greg began to worry about Moriarty. At first he had seemed like the same kind of killer Sherlock always loved to hunt down, but it was beginning to seem like more. He worried. When he went over to the Baker Street flat and cuddled on the couch with Sherlock, he could see that there was something on the younger man’s mind and during their Christmas party, Sherlock was rude to him in a way that he hadn’t been in quite some time.

            “Sherlock? Are you alright?” he asked a night after the party when he was lying on the couch with his feet in the consulting detective’s lap. John was out at a pub with some old army pals, giving the two men time alone.

            “Fine,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.

            “You don’t seem it.”

            “And how do I seem when I’m fine?” Sherlock asked.

            “Manic.”

            Greg was rewarded with a small smile.

            “Did you ever think we’d be here?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

            “You mean when I was making sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit? Or when I was going through a nasty separation?” Greg asked. His eyes were half shut, a smile on his face.

            “A no would have sufficed,” Sherlock said.

            Greg nudged his arm with his toes. “Don’t be cross. It’s a good place to end up.”

            “I don’t do sex, Greg,” Sherlock said.

            Greg opened his eyes. “I never asked. Did I ever make it seem like this was more than what we’re doing right now? There are many ways to love someone, Sherlock. If I wanted that type of relationship I’d be out with John. This is something more special, at least to me.”

            Sherlock caught Greg’s eyes and help them with his own bright ones. Greg stared back without hesitation. Finally, Sherlock smiled slightly and hummed.

            “Turn off the telly, then. I haven’t slept in days,” he said.

            Greg was quick to comply. As the night carried on, they fell asleep.

^ ^ ^

            Greg wasn’t there when Sherlock leapt from the roof. John was the one on the phone. Greg wasn’t the first one to be threatened. Greg didn’t even find out until two hours later when a shaking John Watson walked through his door and promptly threw up on his floor. Greg spent that night alone on his couch convinced his heart was turning to stone.  When his wife called, having heard, he could only say, “I loved him,” until she soothed him with quiet, “I know. I know.” He didn’t cry. He couldn’t even breathe really. He was actually surprised to find Mycroft in his house the next morning.

            “What do you want?” he asked stonily.

            “I am very sorry, Gregory,” Mycroft said.

            “Well…bloody lot of good that does me. John told me. You’re the reason he’s dead. I loved him more than I’ve loved anyone else in my life and he did this because of you. Get out. I can’t even…I can’t even look at you,” Greg’s voice broke.

            Mycroft didn’t move from his spot by the door. “He was my brother. I know how it feels.”

            “No you don’t,” Greg nearly whimpered, “you never held him when he was sick. You never ducked a glass flying at your head and then watched him cry. You never saw him on the chase once he was clean. And you never knew that he had a heart so big he had to lock it in a cage. You don’t know how it feels to lose the one person who matters so much you don’t need to be inside of him physically because he’s already in every breath you take. You can’t know. You won’t ever know.”

            Mycroft took in Greg’s red eyes and the way his skin seemed to sink off of his bones. He looked 20 years older since the day before. Mycroft sighed as he handed over the folder he held.

            “Sherlock left his phone. It had a recording of what happened on the roof. I thought you’d need to see why he did what he did. Who he was protecting. I am so very sorry Gregory. This is a great loss.”

            Greg couldn’t even hit him. He didn’t have the strength. He didn’t have the heart. All he had left was the crumbling bones that kept him moving. He took the folder with a limp hand. Mycroft nodded stiffly. Displays of emotion made him uncomfortable and he escaped as soon as he could. When he closed the door behind him, he heard a wail as something crashed into the wall. Closing his eyes, Mycroft leaned against the door for a moment before straightening and walking to his car.

^ ^ ^

            “You can’t! You told me to insist!” Molly blocked the door with her body.

            A pale and bloody Sherlock towered over her. “But…Lestrade! John! They must know!”

            “They’ll die, Sherlock. You told me that. You tell them now, they’ll die and this would have been for nothing,” she whispered.

            He bent down, nearly falling forward so his chin rested on her head.

            “I can’t do this alone,” he said softly.

            She brought her hands up to his arms. “I’m here,” she said, “and when the time comes, we’ll tell them together.”

            For a long time they didn’t move. Finally she let out a long sigh and said, “Let’s get you cleaned up. You have people to catch.”

^ ^ ^

            _“Silence is deafening, John. Don’t you see? It hurts when there is nothing because then, there is everything. Every memory. Every regret. And every piece of the puzzle scrambling to fall into place. That is why I need the Work. You say I’m too loud, too much, and sometimes a touch to crazy, but isn’t that the way to live? I don’t revel in the silence as you do, I despise it.”_

And in the silence they all sat, weary of its hold. For three long years the silence wormed into their brains and finally, John understood what Sherlock had meant. The day he put his gun to his head once more all he could hear were echoes. The day Greg stopped fighting for his job, he finally knew defeat. And the day Mycroft saw his brother again, he wondered if there really were miracles.

            And Sherlock? Sherlock was the worst off of them all. For in the silence he had fallen. So scarred and broken he made his way home, the silence a place for haunting memories. When he collapsed in front of his brother he felt there was nothing left to him. The only words he spoke were,

            “Don’t tell Greg.”


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of it all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd and un edited. I haven't gotten there yet! Thanks so much for reading. I might add more to this later but as of right now I just wanted to get it up so I can start my new fic and hopefully finish some of my older ones that have tapered off.

The first time Greg saw Sherlock again he was so tired he thought it was a dream.  It was probably why he reacted the way he did.

            “Oh…you…do me a favor and go away,” he sighed tiredly.

            “Right,” Sherlock said awkwardly. He was wearing a new coat, his old one coveted by the Detective Inspector even with its blood stains. Sherlock knew John had also fought for it, but Greg had bought it and Mycroft had allowed him to take it.

            Greg, who thought he was simply hallucinating in his coffee fed exhaustion, waved Sherlock back. “No. You know I don’t mean that. You always know what I mean. Bloody brilliant, you are. Do you know how much I miss you?”

            Sherlock froze and turned back to Greg. With a shaking hand he reached out for Greg’s cheek. He had spent so long lying to himself about how much he cared for the people in his life and he was rubbed raw. It was too much. It had been nearly too much seeing Mrs. Hudson and she was the easiest person to see. When his fingers brushed Greg’s cheek, the man’s eyes snapped open wide. Sherlock jerked back.

            “You’re here.”

            “Yes, Greg. Of course I am. I….regret not coming sooner.”

            Greg clenched his jaw and his hands into fists. Sherlock stupidly didn’t back away. Greg lunged across his desk, grabbed Sherlock by the collar and brought their faces close together.

            “You….fucking…god there is no fucking word for it, is there? For how… **disgusting** you are as a human being! You died. Died. Left me, left John, let Mrs. Hudson. Even left your brother. I thought I loved you. Up until a moment ago but….dammit you psychopath! I’ve never used that word to describe you. Ever. To anyone. I’ve stood up for you. I took care of you and you do this to me. I can’t even look at you.”

            Greg’s hand didn’t unclench and Sherlock only stared back at him. When Greg’s shaking fist hit his nose he reeled to the side but only let out a slight grunt. Sherlock knew it was broken but he didn’t say a word. Greg hadn’t released him and he let himself go limp. With a dry sob, Greg shook him.

            “You utter asshole. You insane man. How? How could you do this to me?”

            Sherlock’s eyes found Greg’s in the bad lighting of his office. Sherlock was thankful it was late and no one else was working on his floor. He leaned forward, blood catching on his lips.

            “I did what I had to do.”

            He knew Greg hated him now. He understood it. He didn’t have any way to give him relief or to fight back. He was drained. Greg let go and fell backward.

            “You….just get out. Get out!”

            Sherlock turned to go.

            “Have you seen John yet?” Greg asked his back.

            “No.”

            “Go. Tell him. I’ll have your coat sent to your brother. This one makes you look too….thin,” he was speaking into his palm and Sherlock only nodded.

            “I do….regret this Gregory. I’m sorry.”

^ ^ ^

            Sherlock had never said “I’m sorry” so many times in his life. John was more volatile. At first, he pointed his gun at Sherlock but had soon dropped it, instead pulling Sherlock into a hug that ended with a punch to the back of the head. It was all very messy and bipolar and Sherlock kept that thought to himself lest he get hit again.

            “You need someone to fix that nose,” John gestured after he’d calmed down enough to speak coherently.

            Sherlock nodded from his spot on John’s ugly couch.

            “This place reminds of me of my flat before Baker Street. Dismal place,” he said with a small wrinkle of his nose.

            John sighed and ignored the slight. It was only Sherlock trying to get back to normal. “So who punched you?”

            “Lestrade.”

            “Well good for him. You broke his heart, you know,” John said. He tipped Sherlock’s head so he could see his nose.

            “Yes.”

            “And mine,” John said evenly, “but I met Mary and I moved on. He stayed alone in his shell.”

            “Regrettably.”

            “What did you expect?” john asked as Sherlock winced from his touch.

            “I don’t know. I just knew I had to save you all.”

            “Ah. The great web. Well. You could have told us. You could have had help.”

            “Please, John. As if I didn’t,” Sherlock scoffed before thinking the thought through and paling. John stopped moving.

            “Mycroft?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

            “No. Mycroft didn’t know. He couldn’t. He wasn’t threatened but he is very visible to the right people. They would know,” Sherlock said.

            “Then who?” John queried.

            “Molly. Obviously.”

            “Molly? Molly Hooper?” John’s jaw dropped.

            “Yes.”

            “Mousy little Molly Hooper, the sweetest socially inept woman on the planet?” John asked.

            “I wouldn’t go that far, but yes, that Molly Hooper,” Sherlock winced as John prodded at him.

            “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he murmured.

            “And that is exactly why she helped me. Even Moriarty overlooked her. He dated her to be in my life and he underestimated her importance,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “I thought you did as well, honestly,” John replied.

            Sherlock shifted sharply and cringed when he hit his nose.

            “I realized the errors in my past judgments,” Sherlock said stiffly.

            John chuckled unkindly. “I’m sure you did. Well, your nose should heal but it might be a bit crooked. Care to tell me what you’ve been doing all this time? Why you left us and didn’t bother to say anything? And don’t give me some half baked shit about saving our lives. The initial jump, yes, but the rest of it? We could have known. I could have known. I couldn’t help Greg because I didn’t know. Like I said, I have Mary now but he has nothing.”

            “It was unavoidable.”

            “Your brother knew, no doubt,” John said sourly.

            “No. Not until the end. I couldn’t have a trail of his money after me. Something like that leaves a certain scent to the types of people I was hunting,” Sherlock said.

            John let out a dry laugh. “Well at least even he didn’t know a thing about it. Makes me feel better that he hasn’t been lying to me these past years.”

            “You’ve been speaking to Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

            John leaned back on his heels and seemed to think. “Mary? It’s alright to come down now,” he called and Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise.

            Mary was a pretty woman with intelligent eyes and shoulder length chestnut hair. She smiled and raised her hand in a small wave. John beamed at her and Sherlock only stared.

            “Mary, this is Sherlock. Mycroft’s brother,” John’s eyes lit up while Sherlock scowled.

            “Oh I know who he is, dear,” Mary giggled. She knelt with her fiancé and offered her hand to Sherlock. “It’s….interesting to meet you, Sherlock. I’d been informed you were dead. But, knowing your brother as I do I can honestly say you coming back from the dead isn’t too surprising. If that man could, he would make you invincible so he could stop worrying.”

            Sherlock took her hand and hummed. “Dead husband, so widower….clever in your own rite. Oh. You met through Mycroft. You work for the government,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

            “Very good,” she nodded, “John said you were the most clever person he’d met. Even above Mycroft. But your brother introduced me to John so I must say that he is my favorite Holmes at the moment.”

            Sherlock looked between John and Mary. Only minutes before John had been angry but Mary eased his distrust. Sherlock could see the emotions between them and he could see why John loved Mary. He stood.

            “Thank you,” he said softly to Mary, making John look up sharply, “For taking care of John while I was gone.”

            “I will continue while you’re here, too,” she said, an edge of steel in her voice. Sherlock gave her a ghost of a smile.

            “I do not doubt it. I have something I must go do….” And with that, Sherlock swept from the room.

            “He’s….interesting,” Mary said. John fell back against the couch and blew out a sigh. Absently, Mary ran her fingers through his hair.

^ ^ ^

            “I will not leave you again,” Sherlock said as he burst into Greg’s room. Greg looked up in surprise.

            “Sherlock?”

            “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I did what I had to do and that you think I didn’t need to do it the way I did. Regrettably, no one has figured out how to safely change our timelines or I would go back for you. There is nothing more I can do than lie humbly at your feet, which you know I do not do lightly, and ask you to forgive in time,” Sherlock said gravely.

            Greg blinked. He’d never heard Sherlock talk like this and he didn’t know what to say. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, his heart cautiously beating once again.

            “Do stop impersonating a fish and tell me what I must do to make you forgive me,” Sherlock said irritably.

            “Come to bed,” Greg found himself saying.

            The room was dark but Greg could feel Sherlock’s smile against his shoulder. He wouldn’t admit it for a few weeks, but he slept all night that night for the first time in years.

^ ^ ^

_Three months later_

            “John! Stop fidgeting!”

            “Oi! This is my wedding day!”

            “Well then you want a nicely tied tie!”

            “Greg, make your boyfriend stop.”

            Laughter rang through the room where Greg sat, his feet up on the coffee table and Sherlock was forcing John into a tie.

            “If I could control him, don’t you think he’d be wearing that steel grey shirt?” Greg asked.

            Sherlock turned and leaned over Greg until their noses touched. “Oh, but I thought you loved the plum?”

            Greg blew a breath over Sherlock’s face so Sherlock scrunched his nose and backed up. “Love, I like everything you wear.”

            “My. Wedding. Day,” John said sternly but he was laughing.

            “Yes, to the lovely Mary. We all know. Shall we, then?” Sherlock gestured for the door. John stepped out first and Greg caught Sherlock’s hand.

            Sherlock turned expectantly and Greg smiled almost shyly. “I forgive you,” he said.

            Sherlock blinked, his face slack with shock. After a moment he reached for Greg’s cheeks with shaking hands. Greg smiled in encouragement and for the first time since he’d met the man, Sherlock kissed him.

            “Oi! Wedding!” John called down the hall and Sherlock broke away laughing a little breathlessly.

            “I love you,” he said. Greg took his hand.

            “I know.”


End file.
